Hearts of Men
by Laughable Breakdowns
Summary: A cat, a dog and a bird, and then a man all stumble across John Watson in his times of need. (title inspired by a song by the band Orange Avenue)
1. Cat

Cat

A light spring rain was drizzling down on London. It pitter-pattered against the sidewalk, causing puddles to collect in the gutter that would eventually spray pedestrians when hurried taxis drove through them. In the local grave-yard birds sang, happy for the chance to bath for the third time that week. Flowers lay forlornly at the foot of gravestones, most wilted and browning but an odd few were fresh and in good shape. The ones that weren't dead would be thankful for the rain, although it would only cruelly prolong their death.

A cynical looking tabby cat sat at the gate of the grave-yard, surveying the surroundings. The cat did this every morning after it went for his daily walk, although it rained every morning and he always got wet, which he hated. He found the cemetery peaceful and, as it was usually quite empty, he wasn't worried about some hopeful, sticky-fingered child snatching him. The cat watched the birds for a moment, deciding against trying to catch one – he had injured his leg in a fight with a mangy European Shorthair a week ago and it was still healing. He would go digging in skips for leftovers later.

Every time that the cat came by he saw the wreaths and the bouquets of flowers at the foot of the graves and looked at them in distaste. Why would humans want to kill a flower just to let it sit beside a marble rock?

It made no sense to the cat and he usually paid no attention to the foot of the graves.

But today he noticed something quite decidedly unflower-like beside one of the newer graves, and looking at it with interest. It was a human, dressed in a red jumper and jeans. It was slumped against the grave, apparently asleep. The cat padded over to get a better look and stopped a few feet away from the human – the man, as it were.

Yes, it – he, the cat reminded himself - was definitely asleep. It appeared that he had stayed there overnight as his clothes were wet with rain. He had sandy hair and a lined face. The tabby thought he looked sad. He watched the man shiver for a moment before taking pity on him and walking over purposefully- for a cat _never_ did anything without a good reason –, pawing lightly at the man's face.

The man woke with a start and jumped, smacking his elbow on the gravestone and groaning. The cat looked on in amusement – this human was one of the funny ones. Sad, but funny. The cat could tell.

The man looked at the cat for a moment, rubbing his elbow in confusion. "Where did you come from?" he murmured before sitting up and straightening his jumper, twisting around to look at the grave behind him. His eyes suddenly looked sad. The cat mewed and the man lifted his hand to rub the tabby's head, still looking at the grave. He turned and leaned with his back against the marble grave, looking at the cat.

"I fell asleep at this grave last night, if you were wondering," the man said by way of explanation. "This is the grave of my best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He killed himself. He was a great man…a good one. Maybe you would've liked him, actually, but he wouldn't have liked you. He probably would have done experiments on you or something…see if he could make you grow another set of ears. Stick you in the fridge." The man chuckled for a moment and then fell silent, looking down to stare at his lap, still rubbing the cat's ears. When he looked up again his eyes were wet – how strange, the cat thought, that human's eyes should leak. What use was that?

"I miss him a lot," the man said, his voice thick. The cat certainly hoped that the human wouldn't start sniveling – it was horribly dull, watching humans do that. Not to mention noisy.

"I miss him a lot," the man repeated, scrunching up his face and leaning his head back against the grave for a moment. The cat nuzzled his palm. This man was funny – why was he sad? The funny ones were always sad, the cat thought regretfully.

The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath before standing up, using the grave as a brace to support himself. The man looked at the cat for a moment, as though he were deciding something, before laughing sharply and shaking his head.

"I'm talking to a bloody cat," he said as he turned around and began to walk away, still shaking his head. He was limping slightly.

The cat stared after the man for a moment, twitching his tail. How strange it was, the cat thought, that humans acted the way that they did. They were so silly – putting flowers beside their rocks, throwing out perfectly good food, pulling out weeds in some places and yet growing them in others. They walked around like they owned the world and yet they were so horrendously stupid.

The cat twitched its tail once more and turned, slinking out of the graveyard. When he reached the sidewalk he saw the funny man again. He was wiping tears from his face, making horrible sniffling noises and trying to cover his crying by ducking his head. The cat huffed.

Horrendously stupid, indeed.


	2. Dog

Dog

The dog loved digging through dumpsters. In fact, if anyone asked what her favourite activity was, she would probably say exactly that. She loved the smell of the leftover food and the garbage, the scents that rushed at her so strongly that she almost fell over every time she stuck her nose in the bin. She loved the tastes, the old leather and the moldy garbage and the yummy leftovers.

What she didn't love, however, was the man that she often found passed out beside the bins. Not that she didn't love the_ man_, of course (the dog loved everyone), but she didn't love the fact that he had a habit of passing out in back alleyways. Usually once every three weeks, sometimes more often she would find him, stinking of alcohol - horrible stuff; she had licked an old beer bottle once- and second-hand cigarette smoke. He had sand coloured hair and a lined face, and the dog found him quite likeable. Whenever she stumbled across him she would always sit with him and guard him through the night. This was not simply an act of kindness on her part, though – the dog got quite lonely and this man was decidedly good company. Not too noisy, not disruptive, not the type to pull a dog's tail. Only once he had woken up and called out, frightening the dog ("Sherlock!" The dog wondered what a Sherlock was), before promptly vomiting all over his jeans. He had sat there for a moment, moaning and whimpering to himself like a lost puppy and then had gotten up, limping away. The man had never noticed the dog hiding behind the dumpster, tail between her legs. Besides that, he was good company indeed.

Tonight was one of those nights, though. The dog peeked her head around the side of the dumpster, chewing on a chicken bone, and saw the man. He had on a jumper and dirty looking jeans. He was unconscious but was mumbling to himself.

The dog sat her chicken bone down gently and licked her nose, walking over towards the man. She sat herself down beside him and, noticing that he was shivering, pressed herself against his side. She resisted the urge to lick his cheek.

"No..." the man mumbled in his drinker state, frowning. The dog whined softly. "No," he whimpered, "no...SHERLOCK!"

He woke himself up and jumped, his blurry eyes darting around frantically. The dog jumped back and yelped, surprised. She and the man made eye contact for a moment and she froze, wondering whether or not she should run.

The man stared at her in shock before scrambling up and, wobbling, grabbing the closest weapon available - an abandoned shopping cart. The dog whined and sank low to the ground to show that she wasn't dangerous.

"Don't you touch me you, you...dog!" The man slurred, his eyes unfocused. The dog whimpered. "I..." suddenly he began to sob and, pushing the shopping cart away, slid down to rest on the wet concrete.

He wrapped his arms around himself and cried, scratching and grabbing at his face and hair as though he might tear the skin off. He moaned in what could only be described as agony and then leaned over to vomit. The dog walked over to him and cautiously and put her head on his thigh, wagging her tail. She suddenly realised that this man was one of the ones that licks and tail wags and whimpers couldn't fix.

When the man was finished vomiting he stared at the dog, and apparently deciding that she wasn't dangerous, leaned back against the wall. The sun was beginning to rise and it cast a dull pink glow over the damp, quiet streets of London.

The man noticed this and, sighing, moved to stand up. The dog got off of him and sat on the ground, looking at the man sadly. He stared back at her for a moment before giving her a half wave.

"Err...bye," he said awkwardly, and the dog wagged her tail at him. He started down the street, still half drunk, stumbling every few feet. The dog wondered where he was going - if he had a home, why didn't he just sleep there?

The man had made the dog feel sad, but she was also slightly content. Most people would have hit her to make her run away, or have run away themselves. Most people were afraid of stray dogs, but this man wasn't. While he had originally been frightened, that hadn't lasted long, which was more than she could say for any of the other people she had tried to befriend.

No, the dog thought. This man certainly wasn't afraid at all.


	3. Bird

Bird

The bird had been watching the man for quite some time. He was dressed in a green jumper and jeans, and his hair was the colour of drying sand, highlighted with grey the colour of the sky on a cloudy day. The bird was a seagull – he knew these things. The bird was slightly perplexed – he had never seen this man before, although he frequently flew up to the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital to enjoy the view. Every so often the man would walk to the edge of the roof and peer over as if deciding something, before backing away and sitting down.

The bird had been watching the man for over half an hour and he was becoming quite concerned. It seemed as though this man thought he might be able to fly – and men couldn't fly, at least not like birds could. If he flew off the roof he would have no wings to flap and he would fall.

The bird flapped over towards the man, who was peering over the edge of the roof again, and cawed loudly. The man jumped and looked up, surprising registering on his face before it was replaced with a look of non-committal annoyance.

"Go away," the man said, waving his hand at the bird in a quite non-threatening way. "I'm busy."

The bird cawed again. The man didn't _look_ busy. He looked sad. His face was creased and tired. His eyes were wet with tears. His jumper was too large for him and it flapped in the wind. Sad people often tried to fly – the bird had seen it many times. Not good business, the bird thought, not good business at all.

The man sat down on the roof and put his head in his hands. He was shivering. The bird flapped closer to the man, not sure how to help him, but was promptly startled by the sound of a door slamming. He looked up quickly and squawked when he saw what appeared to be an extremely large crow. Its gargantuan wings flapped around it menacingly, the feather's on top of its head blowing in the wind. It opened its mouth and spoke, not in squawked and caws, but in human language.

"John…"

The man was looking at the crow too, gazing at it in what could only be described as terror.

The bird took off and flew away as fast as his wings could take him. It was alright anyway, the bird thought. There were many, many humans. What did it matter if a few tried – and failed – to fly?


	4. Man

Man

The man had been watching John Watson up on the roof for quite some time. He wasn't purposely hiding himself, but the door to the roof was half blocking him from view and John hadn't noticed him yet…which was good. The man wanted to observe John for a moment, uninterrupted.

It was true that the man had never been sentimental. He had always loathed people who were emotional, who wore their hearts on their sleeves…but up on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital, watching his friend, something clicked inside the man. He had to lean against the wall for support as a wave of sadness crashed against him, bringing a frown to his face.

John looked quite broken. It was clear to the man that he had not slept in over three days. He hadn't shaved in a week. His clothes, a plain jumper and jeans – ever predictable, even after all this time – had been slept in the night before. John's face was deeply lined, more so than the man remembered it being before. He had lost 2.3 stone.

The man was hit with another wave of emotion, this time guilt. How could he have left his friend like this? He slammed the door he held open loudly, making himself known.

"John…" he began, stepping into view.

A seagull that had been flapping around John squawked rather annoyingly and flew away, while John himself turned jumped and turned towards the man. For a moment nothing registered, and fear clutched at the man's stomach. What had happened in his absence? How would John react?

Suddenly a startled look passed over John's face and he sprung up, stumbling towards him almost drunkenly before stopping and simply staring at the man. His shoulders drooped noticeably.

"You're not real," John said in a small voice. The wind whipped around him, causing his jumper to flap about in a way that made him look like a small, forlorn child.

The man's stomach clenched. "Yes, John, I am." He walked towards his friend and held out his hands in front of him, silently pleading with John to touch him.

John looked at him for a moment, skeptical, before tentatively touching the man's hand. He gasped at the contact and retracted his hand quickly, looking up at him. The man gazed back.

Suddenly the look of disbelief on John's face turned to fury and he swung at the man, his fist colliding with his face with a dull thump. The man stumbled back, catching his balance before he fell over, his mind screaming at him to remember that _they were on a roof! _

"How could you! How are you…how could you possibly be alive? I saw you!" John paused and stomped towards the man, his arms swinging, and the man took a step back.

"John," he pleaded, holding up his hands in what he hoped looked like surrender, "I promise that I will tell you everything. You have my word. It's okay."

But John kept coming, raising his hand to point a finger at Sherlock. "It's not okay! It's NOT okay! I SAW you! I watched you die! I mourned your death! Do you understand what I've been going through at all? Don't you feel?" John stopped for a moment to catch his breath and when he inhaled he let out a broken sob.

"I- do you have any idea how hard this has been for me? I was going to, today, I was gonna –"

John's speech was broken by his sobbing and he slowly sunk to the ground. The man stood by awkwardly, unsure what to do, before slowly sitting down next to John and pulling him into a hug. John leaned into his touch and cried into the man's purple silk shirt, wrapping his arms around the man in return and holding him tightly.

"Shh," the man murmured overtop of John's head, "I'm so, so sorry. I promise I'll tell you everything, I will, let's just go back to 221b and I'll tell you, I won't leave you again, you have my word, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

The wind screamed around the two men as they held each other and they both shivered, burying their faces deeper in each other's clothing.

The man rested his chin on top of John's head and closed his eyes as his friend's sobs died down, cherishing the oh-so human sounds of sniffing and snuffling. As John relaxed into the man's arms, the man was hit with a profound feeling of calm. He opened his eyes and gazed out over London, sighing into John's hair. Somehow, the man thought, everything would be alright now.

Sherlock Holmes had finally come home.


End file.
